He spoke definitively, and made a slight movement, which his visitor accepted as his dismissal. He laughed aloud when the door closed, for the spirit of what the Germans call _Schadenfreude_ was never far from his elbow, and he rejoiced in the parson’s discomfiture. It was in virtue of his simplicity, precluding discomfiture, that Malcolm could hold his own with him so well. For him he now sent. “Well, MacPhail,” he said kindly, as the youth entered, “how is that foot of yours getting on?” “Brawly, my lord; there’s naething muckle the maitter wi’ hit, or me aither, noo ’at we’re up. But I was jist nearhan’ deid o’ ower muckle bed.” “Hadn’t you better come down out of that cockloft?” said the marquis, dropping his eyes. “Na, my lord; I dinna care aboot pairtin’ wi’ my neebour yet.” “What neighbour?” “Ow, the auld warlock, or whatever it may be ’at hauds a reemish (_romage_) there.” “What! is _he_ troublesome next? “Ow, na! I’m no thinkin’ ’t; but ’deed I dinna ken, my lord!” said Malcolm. “What do you mean, then?” “Gien yer lordship wad aloo me to force yon door, I wad be better able to tell ye.” “Then the old man is _not_ quiet?” “There’s something no quaiet.” “Nonsense! It’s all your imagination--depend on it.” “I dinna think it.” “What _do_ you think, then? You’re not afraid of ghosts, surely?” “No muckle. I hae naething mair upo’ my conscience nor I can bide i’ the deidest o’ the nicht.” “Then you think ghosts come of a bad conscience? A kind of moral _delirium tremens_--eh?” “I dinna ken, my lord; but that’s the only kin’ o’ ghaist I wad be fleyed at--at least ’at I wad rin frae. I wad a heap raither hae a ghaist i’ my hoose nor ane far’er benn. An ill man, or wuman, like Mistress Catanach, for enstance, ’at’s a’ body, ’cep’ what o’ her ’s deevil,----” “Nonsense!” said the marquis, angrily; but Malcolm went on: “----maun be jist fu’ o’ ghaists! An’ for onything I ken, that’ll be what maks ghaists o’ themsels efter they’re deid, settin’ them _waukin’_, as they ca’ ’t. It’s full waur nor bein’ possessed wi’ deevils, an’ maun be a hantle mair ooncoamfortable.--But I _wad_ hae yon door opent, my lord.” “Nonsense!” exclaimed the marquis once more, and shrugged his shoulders. “You must leave that room. If I hear anything more about noises, or that sort of rubbish, I shall insist upon it.--I sent for you now, however, to ask you about these clandestine meetings of the fisher-folk.” “Clandestine, my lord? There’s no _clam_ aboot them, but the clams upo’ the rocks.” The marquis was not etymologist enough to understand Malcolm’s poor pun, and doubtless thought it worse than it was. “I don’t want any fooling,” he said. “Of course you know these people?” “Ilka man, wuman, an’ bairn o’ them,” answered Malcolm. “And what sort are they?” “Siclike as ye micht expec’.” “That’s not a very luminous answer.” “Weel, they’re nae waur nor ither fowk, to begin wi’; an’ gien this hauds, they’ll be better nor mony.”